


The Washi Shop

by MK_Marlowe



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MK_Marlowe/pseuds/MK_Marlowe
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri could have been a dancer. Instead, he owns a small business in a small university town, and he's not sure he made the better choice.





	1. Chapter 1

— — — 

The shop itself was small, one room and a staircase leading to the apartment above. Phichit claimed the bedroom overlooking the “courtyard,” the sad little garden with a half-functional fountain in the middle of the apartment complex’s car park. Yuuri got the larger room, with the additional six square feet, because his window faced the street.

Well, that, and because it was, in fact, his shop supporting the greater part of their living expenses. 

“Yuuri, it’s getting late,” Phichit warned, just before he squashed a knit cap down on Yuuri’s head. Yuuri sputtered and fought him, reflexive, laughing at Phichit’s laughter as they grappled. “Come on! It’s almost five!”

“Let me just--” Yuuri pawed through the detritus on his desk, looking for his phone. A chime sounded from under his bed-- under his bed? Yuuri whirled around and dove for it even as more chimes sounded: Phichit spamming emojis while Yuuri floundered through the tangle of ribbons, ropes, and tapes that were half his livelihood. “Got it! Um. Ghosts?”

“They look like me,” Phichit said serenely, and then flashed a smile at him. Sure enough; Phichit and the ghost emoji shared the same good-natured grin. Yuuri tucked the phone into his pocket, shouldered the bag he’d prepped that afternoon, and followed his dearest friend out the door.

They went out through the shop, which Yuuri rarely allowed: he preferred to keep their personal foot-traffic to the personal areas of the apartment. Phichit preferred to leave by whichever door was closest to his destination. They’d been sharing this place a year, and Phichit’s preferences were slowly winning. Not that Yuuri was a pushover or anything.

“Zip up,” Phichit commanded, and Yuuri did, because he was, in fact, a pushover. He had always been, and Phichit had always been a benevolent bully.

Their apartment wasn’t on campus proper, but close enough that it took a mere fifteen minutes to get to the library mall, where Minako’s dance classes would be finishing up their unofficial spring semester dance-off—which former students were always invited to come back and participate in.

Okukawa Minako, former professional ballerina and recipient of the Benois de la Danse, had been part of Yuuri’s life since, well, birth. Maybe even before, if he were to believe Minako’s story of how his parents met over his parents’ far less… salacious version of events. For the first thirteen years of his life, back in Hasetsu, Japan, Yuuri had studied dance with Minako and, if he were to be honest, taken her entirely for granted. That changed when Minako retired from professional dancing for good, and then accepted an invitation to teach dance at an American university.

“Ah, to the right,” Phichit said, knocking his shoulder into Yuuri’s and jerking his head to indicate a short, red- and blond-haired boy scanning the crowd with an expression that could only be described by Phichit’s favorite new term: thirsty. Minami Kenjirou, currently the only Japanese international student studying dance, as Yuuri had graduated just last year. Yuuri winced and pulled the knit cap further down over his hair. Just his luck.

Phichit, ever helpful, laughed at him. “He’s going to see you when you’re dancing, you’re know.”

“But he doesn’t have to see me before I’m up,” Yuuri muttered, and led the way through the crowd ‘round to where Minako was standing, watching her students with a critical eye. She didn’t even look when Yuuri sidled up next to her, though she did nod in acknowledgment.

The current group on the library mall steps was doing a modern routine to a remix of Hit Me Baby One More Time. They were good enough to have distracted a decent amount of students from either going home or out to the bars, but not good enough to keep off Minako’s frown. 

“Get up there and show them what expression is, will you?” she asked wearily as the song wound down. Yuuri silently handed her his phone and shrugged off his jacket, Phichit pulling out his ribbons from his bag and untwisting them as Yuuri doffed his glasses and cap and drew in a deep breath.

He loved dancing. Even if attention made him anxious. He loved it and he could do this, just as he had for the five years previous. 

“Knock ‘em dead,” Phichit said, and pushed him towards the steps.

Ribbon dancing, in rhythmic gymnastics, used one ribbon. Yuuri, because he had no pretensions to gymnastics, much less training, had decided to create a short dance routine using two, attached to two short bamboo sticks. 

“All right, everyone!” Minako was shouting from speaker setup. “You’re done! Grades will be posted on Monday. Don’t cry when you see them; you’ll have a chance to improve. Now a few returners and faculty members will show you how I expect it to be done! Katsuki Yuuri, you’re up!”

With his glasses off, the crowd was blessedly little more than a blur. Yuuri waited for his song to kick in, and let loose.

———

Phichit was emptying the drawer. “Still do not see a bottle opener.”

It was too much. Yuuri grabbed the beer bottle from where Phichit had left it, sitting on the counter, and slammed it down, popping the cap off. “Here,” he said, after taking the first swig. It was his right. He had opened it, after all.

“You did good, Yuuri!” Phichit said again, desperately. Yuuri scoffed and slunk back to the table where his half bottle of wine was waiting. “You did better than Christophe!”

“Who was that guy?” Yuuri whined, dropping his head to the tabletop. “Who? Why?”

He’d done well. He really had. He knew it, because Minako had actually smiled when he finished. She didn’t even like OK Go, and she hadn’t even complained that he’d chosen one of their songs to dance to. She’d even taken Christophe’s weird pole-dance-without-a-pole in stride. 

Yuuri had been fending off Minami’s effusive praise for his ribbon dancing during most of Christophe’s dance, which, on the welcome side, had allowed him to miss most of Christophe’s dance. He had become well-acquainted with the, ah, erotic under- and overtones of Christophe’s style during the three years they’d studied together before Christophe finally graduated and, subsequently, gutted the dance program’s sexy quotient. But Minami had finally settled down enough for Yuuri to pay attention again when the most ridiculously beautiful man he’d ever seen in all his life ran into the scene, waving to Minako and offering apologies.

“Victor Nik—Nikifov?” Phichit frowned. “That doesn’t sound right. Hang on, I’ll text—“

“Do. Not. Text. Minako.” It was bad enough Minako had seen Yuuri gaping like a fish out of water before Yuuri had had the presence of mind to just. Run.

And go home to get drunk.

“You could have stuck around, though,” Phichit mused, taking the other chair at their tiny table. “Could’ve invited him back to the shop.” He laughed at Yuuri’s glare. “What? Maybe he likes stationery. Maybe he needs something gift-wrapped.”

“Maybe he needs to be gift-wrapped,” Yuuri mumbled, and tossed the wine back.

“What does that even mean?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Like, he’s a gift from heaven, and I could wrap him up. And then unwrap him.”

“Wow. You’re already drunk.” Phichit reached out to heft the wine bottle. “Holy—Yuuri! Wasn’t that full?”

“No one is going to remember my dance after that,” Yuuri moaned. “I don’t remember my dance after that! Who was that guy?”

“Ah ha,” Phichit said, and pushed his phone across the table towards Yuuri. “Remember how Minako said faculty?”

Yuuri peered down at the screen. Victor Nikiforov, instructor of dance, attached to Minako’s department for at least the spring semester. Had been a professional dancer with—

“The Bolshoi,” he breathed out, looking at the photos some dear kind soul had decided to include on Victor Nikiforov’s faculty page. There was the silver-haired god of dance who had destroyed an entire campus just two hours previous, with one beautiful, slender leg raised high, destroying Yuuri for the second time in one evening. 

Phichit snatched the phone back. “You’re drooling.”

“Only because I’m drunk,” Yuuri said with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Because if you were sober, you would just run away and go and get drunk,” Phichit snarked. Sometimes, Yuuri’s dearest friend in all the world was a bitch.

“You’re so rude, and I even opened your beer,” he said, trying to find his own phone. “Order me pizza. Order me katsudon. I was so nice to you; you’re so rude to me.”

“You’re so whiny when you’re drunk and repressing your sexuality.” Phichit sighed but did make the call: Japanland, a benevolently terrible “Asian” restaurant two miles away, had just started delivering last year and quickly become Drunk Yuuri’s favorite place. The owner, Morooka Hisashi, had even taken Yuuri’s mother’s advice on fixing up the katsudon dish offered by the restaurant after Yuuri had written her a drunk email on its failings. “You’re lucky you’re still cute.”

Yuuri nodded sagely. “It is my only saving grace.”

“Damn right.” Phichit half-turned away, putting his bottle down. “Otabek! Hi~! Yeah, Yuuri’s drunk again. Please bring us katsudon?”

— — — 

Phichit liked to tell Yuuri that, because it was Yuuri’s shop, he could open at any time he pleased. Yuuri liked to tell Phichit to shut up, but silently, because these exchanges only happened when Yuuri was incredibly hungover and almost incapable of handling a nine AM opening.

“Irashai," he managed, just barely, from his slump behind the counter when the bell at the door rang.

“Same to you,” Sara chirped back, and laughed when Yuuri blinked mournfully up at her. “Celebrated a little too much? You have five packages of paper today.” 

“Celebrated?” Yuuri echoed, taking the scanner from her hand to sign. Most of his intra-US packages came through UPS, and therefore through Sara’s capable hands. As he signed, she wheeled the packages around to the far side of the counter and pushed them off the dolly with her foot, leaving them in a four foot stack that completely blocked Yuuri in.

“You’re lucky, you know?” she continued in the same too-cheerful vein. “I look like a troll when I’m hungover.”

Yuuri stared blankly. “You could never look like a troll.” Then he recoiled as Sara launched herself halfway over the counter to drag him into a hug.

“Yuuri! You’re so sweet to me!” 

“Please stop!”

But it was that kind of morning. Friday mornings were usually a bit slow, with mostly older women coming in and poking around, rarely buying anything, with the afternoon picking up just enough to justify keeping the lights on. Yuuri’s Washi Shop sold mostly paper, from traditional Japanese washi sent from his hometown, courtesy of his sister, Mari, to cheap college-ruled spiral notebooks for the students who knew just how much the university stores marked that stuff up. Yuuri was very, very careful to keep his markup just under theirs. 

He also sold ribbon, washi tape, stationery, pens, pencils, stamps, and any other little thing Mari decided to buy up and ship his way. And for his friends and the few acquaintances in the know, he could get Mari to send whatever they wanted from Japan, again for a modest markup. It kept him afloat, especially since he was able to write off any trips he took back home as business expenses.

And he even offered a few services to keep the community’s interest, like origami lessons and gift-wrapping services. The last had made Christmas almost too hectic, but had surprisingly bolstered his first summer’s earnings with wedding traffic.

This morning, students were flocking to the tiny shop, squeezing in somehow in groups of four, five, or six, picking through all the available merchandise and talking entirely too loud. Yuuri kept to his posted hours—nine to six Tuesday through Friday, noon to five Saturday and Sunday—almost religiously, but this was too much. They were all trying to talk to him, too!

“Um, maybe it’s because of yesterday?” Phichit hissed at him, after Yuuri had texted him for emergency backup. Being a good friend, he’d skipped his last class of the day and come in around one to help out.

“What happened yesterday?” Yuuri hissed back.

Phichit’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “The dance-off!”

Yuuri shook his head, and winced as his headache spiked warningly. He had wanted to call some attention to his shop, had worn a t-shirt he’d gotten printed with “Yuuri’s Washi Shop” a month ago, but there was no way. No possible way. Not after—

“Yuuri!” Minami cried out from the door, and Yuuri looked up to see his self-proclaimed number one fan leading yet another group of people into his shop, and among them, Victor Nikiforov, the most beautiful dance instructor on the face of the planet.

“I am too hungover for this,” Yuuri whimpered.

— — —


	2. Chapter 2

— — — 

“Thirteen-fifty,” Yuuri said, trying to smile even though it felt more like his face was cracking. There were fifteen people in the shop, not counting him and Phichit, which was probably a violation of the fire code. 

Yuuri didn't even know. They’d never had more than seven people in the shop, and that was for Yuuri’s surprise birthday party Phichit had thrown after hours that Yuuri and their neighbors still hadn’t forgiven him for.

“Yuuri, is this the ribbon you used for your dance?” Minami called out from the back of the shop, and Yuuri tried not to twitch. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Minami. It was just… Minami was so much. Too much. Too Minami.

He would cheer Yuuri on during practices back in the day. And he would film the fall and spring dance-offs. Phichit tried to show Yuuri the Youtube channel; Yuuri had claimed a headache and gone to his room to do accounts.

“Yes, Minami,” Yuuri said, rather listlessly.

He had gathered it was Minami’s fault that Victor Nikiforov was in his shop. Victor was presiding over the students with an indulgent smile, like a chaperone for a field trip, and looking over the selection of ribbon that Minami was going through with an appreciative eye. Not that Yuuri was keeping an eye on him, or anything.

“Yuuri was the best dancer in Minako-sensei’s class,” Minami was babbling, and Phichit was mouthing along, staring at Yuuri from his relatively safe position at the door to the stairs up to their apartment, and Yuuri was going to kill him. “He trained with Minako-sensei before she started teaching here, and even helped teach some of her classes! He could’ve gone pro, but he decided to open up this shop. But he still goes to the dance-offs. I asked if he would…”

And here he trailed off, sadly, and threw a look at Yuuri that he probably thought was subtle and not the obvious guilt-trip that it was. Yuuri, knowing that it was coming, had already straightened his shoulders and was ringing up a packet of scrap-booking paper for one of his regular customers, Marianne, a seventy-six year-old lady whose husband had never once set foot in Yuuri’s shop but had sent him a Christmas card to thank him for “taking care of my bride.”

“Why is that young man treating you like a museum exhibit?” Marianne whispered.

Yuuri leaned closer and whispered back, “It’s a Japanese thing.”

It was not a Japanese thing. Phichit was blowing kisses from the door as Marianne made her escape, and Yuuri was still going to kill him. 

“This is flexer ribbon,” someone said, and Yuuri broke out of his death glare to meet the deepest, shiniest, loveliest eyes he’d ever seen in all his life.

“Um, yes? For pointe shoes?” he managed, swallowing a squeak, and felt his heart triple its rhythm when Victor Nikiforov smiled at him.

“So are you really a dancer, then?”

Hair hanging in his face, glasses slipping down his nose, his overlarge Ichiro hoodie hopefully hiding the last five pounds of katsudon weight still hanging around his middle, Yuuri was, somehow, nevertheless, insulted. Incredibly insulted. Heat rising in his cheeks, the itchy precursor to angry tears in the back of his eyes, spine straightening-ly insulted.

And so the words fell out of his mouth like a curse: “If you hadn’t been late to Minako’s dance-off, you’d know.”

Victor stepped back, eyes widening. “Oh, I, uh—“

The bottom dropped out of Yuuri’s heart, and the entire world fell with it. He’d snapped at the most beautiful dance instructor, no, the most beautiful man on the planet. He swallowed hard and tried to focus beyond the screaming in his head, and gestured at the ribbon in Victor’s hands. “Are you buying that?”

“Um.” Victor looked down at the ribbon, a single packet of pink, and looked up again. “Yes? Please?”

“Seven dollars,” Yuuri said, on autopilot, as the screaming in his head intensified.

__ __ __

 

“It’s posted on the board,” Otabek said, and Yuuri tried, very hard, not to tear up. “Katsuki Yuuri cannot have katsudon two nights in a row.”

“Can you please just ignore that for once?” Yuuri pleaded. “I’m not even drunk, I promise you.” Of course Morooka had a notice up. Probably Yuuri had asked him to put a notice up. But this was clearly an emergency situation. “I will tip you twenty dollars.”

Otabek, damn him, remained firm. “It’s on the board.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri wailed, holding out his phone. “Do something!”

“Katsuki Yuuri cannot have katsudon two nights in a row!” Phichit shouted from his room, and the entire world was against him. Yuuri stared up at the ceiling, utterly betrayed, until the silence from his phone finally registered. Otabek had hung up on him.

“Why is my life so hard?” he whimpered.

“Come on, buddy,” Phichit said from the doorway, frowning at him. “You kicked so much ass at the dance-off that your shop was swamped today. You met a super hot guy and, sure, you snubbed him, but maybe he’s into that. And—“

Yuuri let his head thunk down on the table. 

“AND you have a super best friend who just redid your budget for the year.” Phichit carefully placed the laptop down where Yuuri could see it without actually lifting his head from the table. “See? I settled the deal with Emil!”

“You what?” Yuuri sat up at that, and squinted at Phichit’s spreadsheet of the yearly budget. “Mallory’s is going with us?”

“I told you wedding invitations were a good idea!” Phichit cheered, and pulled the other chair around to Yuuri’s side of the table. “See? That’s almost eight hundred quarterly!”

Yuuri tried to scroll down and got his hand slapped. “Phichit!”

“Okay. Yuuri, breathe. I—“ Phichit hesitated, gauging Yuuri’s expression, and then took a deep breath of his own. “Yuuri, I’ve already assigned that money.”

“You’ve assigned it.” While Yuuri very, very much appreciated that Phichit basically worked part-time at the shop for free, even apparently to the point of striking deals with the local wedding boutique for invitation stock, he didn’t always appreciate that Phichit made decisions for the shop for free.

“I think it ought to cover food, accessories, the vet, pet deposit slash rent—“

Yuuri’s mouth dropped open. “Phichit, what?”

At last, Phichit scrolled down to reveal not more spreadsheet, but a picture of a dog. A small, brown, adorable toy poodle, head tilted charmingly. “Meet your new son.”

He couldn’t breathe. “What?”

“We can pick him up from the shelter on Monday. I’m borrowing Christophe’s car.” Phichit poked Yuuri in the forehead. “Yuuri? You okay?”

The picture blurred as Yuuri’s eyes filled with tears. “You adopted a dog?”

“No, you adopted a dog. He belonged to a little old lady who died, like, last month? And no one wanted him. So, um, you’ve been a little stressed out lately, well, you’re always stressed out, but the shop’s doing good and Angela said we can have one dog or two cats and absolutely no hamsters, okay she said no rodents at all—“

“Phichit” Yuuri choked out. The world had narrowed to the dog-shaped blur on the screen. 

Phichit’s eyes were bright with hope. “Yuuri.”

“You’re the best,” Yuuri managed to say before he cried, throwing himself at his best friend and pulling him into a hug.

“Of course I’m the best!” Phichit rubbed his back, laughing in relief. “You really thought I was spending all my cafe money on, what, drugs?”

“I thought some of it was going to rent,” Yuuri said tartly, but it was muffled into Phichit’s shoulder and Phichit gallantly ignored it.

“Like I said, we pick Victor up on Monday—“

“Victor?” Yuuri repeated, pushing away from Phichit. 

Phichit shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “That’s his name. Victor.” At Yuuri’s disbelieving glare, he added, “Oh, come on! I put a deposit on this dog two weeks ago. I didn’t know Victor Nikki Minaj existed back then!”

“Nikiforov,” Yuuri corrected, and wiped his face before looking back at the computer screen. His heart, half-melted from the first look at the tiny pup, finished turning into goo. “Who would name a dog Victor?”

“Maybe the old lady was a Victor Nike Five fan.”

“Phichit, I know you can say it.” But he was laughing now, which was what Phichit wanted, so Yuuri relaxed. “Vicchan. We’ll call him Vicchan.”

— — — 

Saturday was worse, somehow, than Friday, in terms of people mobbing the shop, but better in all other respects. Yuuri had made Phichit send him the picture of Vicchan, and it was now, already, his phone background. Every so often he’d sneak a peek at it and feel adoration welling up in his heart.

Phichit had, once again, answered the call to arms and was helping to create some semblance of order in the tiny boutique space. “Yeah, I know, it’s a thirty dollar pen, but no one is forcing you to buy it.”

“Why do you even sell it?” a small but loud blond kid was demanding, decibels increasing with every syllable, but Yuuri was distracted by Christophe’s careful, considered entrance into the shop.

“Irashai!”

“Yuuri, hi, wow,” Christophe laughed, looking around appreciatively. “I don’t know if you want to stop dancing in public, or do it more often.”

“It’s Minami’s fault, I think.” Yuuri pushed his bangs out of his face and rolled his eyes. “He brought his classmates here yesterday. I think he was trying to get them to help bug me about teaching again.”

“Oh?” Christophe adopted a very innocent expression and Yuuri’s blood pressure began to rise. “I’m sure it was entirely his own idea, and neither Minako nor I would have supported him in it. And—“

“Christophe.”

“—Neither of us would have suggested Victor go along with him, to meet Minako’s favorite pupil.” At Yuuri’s jaw-drop, he smiled brightly and held out a white paper bag. “Croissant? I stopped at Babicheva’s.”

“Why would you do that?” Yuuri demanded.

Christophe shrugged. “I like Babicheva’s, and so do you.”

“That’s not—“

“Ah, it looks like this young lady wants to buy something,” Christophe said, and smiled warmly at the girl standing awkwardly by the counter. “Here, I’ll bag it up for you. Hello~!”

“Hello, thank you, that’ll be,” Yuuri paused, looking over the small collection of notebooks, papers, and pencils she’d assembled. “That’ll be, um. Twenty-three fifty.”

“He just does all that right in his head,” Christophe said to the girl, clicking his tongue. “All those smarts, and a dancer, too!”

“Oh, I saw!” she said, and clapped her hands together. “You were just beau—just amazing, really. Really.”

“No, I just—“ Yuuri tried not to yelp when Christophe pinched him. “I mean, thank you, but I’m just an amateur.”

“But you’re really good!” the girl said, her eyes wide and, somehow, sincere. 

“He’s really good,” Christophe agreed, and sent a sly smile Yuuri’s way. “We’re trying to get him to teach a few classes—“

“But I’m very busy with my shop, thank you, Christophe.” Yuuri closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember sweet little Vicchan’s face. “And thank you, Miss. Um, can you sign here?”

“You’re such a tease,” Christophe sighed after bagging the girl’s purchase. “Have a wonderful day. Yuuri, really. Why won’t you help Minako out?”

Yuuri shook his head, mouth open witlessly. “She—she never asked me. What? Are you helping her out? They have a new instructor now, anyway! She never asked me.”

“No one’s quite been able to fill the hole you left since graduation, darling. And Victor, as much as I adore him, is more of a choreographer than a teacher.” Christophe held out the bag again and Yuuri gave in, reaching in to grab a croissant. “There you are. Now, I agreed last weekend to take on a Thursday class—“

“She asked you?” Yuuri’s heart was plummeting again. He knew he was Minako’s favorite, but… she really hadn’t asked him.

Christophe shook his head. “Victor asked me. Minako’s ankle is acting up again.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Yuuri mumbled, looking down. 

“Eat the croissant, don’t smush it,” Christophe ordered, pushing Yuuri’s hand back up to his mouth. “You know how she is, darling. Victor noticed, that’s why he asked me. We’re hoping you can take on a Monday class, just for the semester. That is, if you can stand working with Victor.” At Yuuri’s wordless stare, he added, “He told me what happened yesterday. Yuuri, why so cruel?”

“I ask him that every day,” Phichit said, materializing at Yuuri’s side and making him and Christophe both jump. “Hi Christophe, thank you again for letting me borrow your car, Yuuri definitely can’t take on dance classes since he’s getting a dog, where’s my croissant?”

“He could bring the dog to class, and here.” Christophe handed over the bag and stepped back. “Just think about it, Yuuri. There are only ten classes left in the semester. Just think about it.”

“Thank you, Christophe!” Phichit said loudly, putting his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “I’ll see you on Monday, to get the car!” He and Christophe glared at each other for a minute, before Christophe bowed his head and held out one graceful hand in a gesture of surrender. 

“Thank you, Christophe,” Yuuri echoed, stomach still swimming. 

Phichit grumbled something as Christophe finally left and pushed Yuuri down onto his chair behind the counter. “Just when I get you calmed down again, he’s gotta come around and rile you back up,” he muttered, and then pointed right in Yuuri’s face. “No decisions on it today! You can’t teach a class on the day we bring Vicchan home. That wouldn’t be good for his doggy development.”

“No, of course not,” Yuuri agreed, though the turning of his stomach didn’t.

— — —


	3. Chapter 3

— — — 

"Leo and Guang Hong are coming over for pizza and Assassin’s Creed,” Phichit said, leaning through the door. “Oh. You’re going to Minako’s?”

Yuuri sighed, staring into the tangled and somewhat glittery depths of his dance bag. “I don’t want to teach a class.”

He could hear Phichit take two careful steps into the room. “You don’t have to. I’ll tell Christophe, if you don’t want to.”

There had been a time when Yuuri thought being a shop owner would be less stressful than being a professional dancer, and that was even with the experience of helping out with the family inn as a child. “I can tell him. I just. I don’t want to—to disappoint Minako-sensei.”

Two more steps, and Phichit was hugging him hard, lifting Yuuri up despite his yelp of protest. “She didn’t ask you, Yuuri, because she didn’t want to ask anyone! You know that’s why they’re hiring other teachers. That Victor guy’s supposed to be doing the teaching, and if he doesn’t know how, that doesn’t mean you have to step in for him!”

“But the students—“ Yuuri started to argue, and got lifted up again, the breathe squeezed back out of him by Phichit’s always surprisingly strong arms.

“That’s what this Victor guy’s getting paid for! You noticed that Christophe didn’t say anything about getting paid, did he?” At Yuuri’s hesitation, he lifted him up one more time in triumph. “No, he didn’t! Yuuri, I won’t let you be used by the white man!”

“Phichit!” Yuuri gasped, surprised into a giggle fit. 

“Asian solidarity! Also Latino, because Leo.” Phichit finally let him go and Yuuri tried to swallow the last of his giggles, working on smoothing out his shirt. “Seriously, Yuuri. Go dance, have fun, we’ll be here when you get back with pizza and mayyyy~be a few gifts for Vicchan, because maybe I told them about him two weeks ago and maybe we’re also having a puppy-shower tonight.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri said again, because there was nothing else he could say. He was probably going to cry, again, because he had the best friend in the entire world and how was he supposed to ever come close to thanking him enough?

“Go go go!” Phichit ordered, shooing him towards the door. “Be safe, don’t talk to any strange students, and they’re all strange so don’t talk to any of them—“

Yuuri sniffed and hoisted his gym bag. “You’re a student.”

“So I know what I’m talking about!”

— — — 

Yuuri had only graduated a little more than a year earlier, having delayed his graduation until the decision came down on his E visa eligibility, so he, too, knew what Phichit was talking about. 

Minako’s studio was in the Wallman Fine Arts building, a twenty-minute jog from the apartment, and guaranteed to be deserted so soon after the dance-off. Yuuri didn't push himself, even with the promise of a puppy-shower in the near future, but was still moving quickly enough to avoid the clumps of students alternately relaxing or panicking on the way. It was getting warm enough now that the frisbee and hacky sack gangs had come back, along with the student buskers and even an optimistic kite flyer.

This is what Yuuri had come to love, living in a university town: crowds of people, everywhere, all life and color and vibrancy, and none of them paying him one tiny bit of attention—unless he wanted it, and demanded it, through his dancing. Maybe it was growing up in a small town where everyone knew everything about everyone, but this kind of anonymity, this choice of anonymity, was absolutely priceless.

He skirted a passionate violinist on his way into the building, stopping only to fill his water bottle before reaching the studio door, which opened even as Yuuri reached out with his key.

“Oh! I’m sorry—“

Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri’s voice cut out and he stared, already horrified, sweaty and disheveled, at the equally sweaty and disheveled ex-Bolshoi dancer, who was clearly post-practice and infuriatingly beautiful despite it. Or maybe because of it.

Victor blinked twice, before breaking into a wide, sunshiny smile. “That’s okay! What room were you looking for?”

“I’m—“ Yuuri backed away, almost tripping in his haste. “I’m—this one?”

“This one?” Victor echoed, tilting his head. The smile hadn’t faded, and Yuuri wanted to shade his eyes, but he didn’t want to look stupid and also he didn’t think it would help. “This is Minako Okukawa’s studio.”

“I know. I, um. She gave me a key.” Yuuri managed to hold it up, his whole face burning. “She lets me use the room. When no one else is. Using it, I mean.” 

He was fluent in English. If only he could remember it!

Victor’s smile faded a little, and he tapped one finger against his perfect lips before exclaiming, “Ah, right! She told me! Someone would be coming to practice in the evenings sometimes.” His smile grew bright again and Yuuri looked down at his feet, unable to face it anymore. “I thought she meant one of the students, though.”

Yuuri couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he didn’t bother, and he didn’t look up.

“Anyway, I’m Victor Nikiforov! It’s a pleasure to meet you!” And Yuuri had to look up then, because Victor had thrust his hand out to shake, almost hitting Yuuri in the face. And then he had to look down again, because Victor winked at him. “This time, I mean.”

Yuuri took his hand gingerly, and flinched when Victor pulled him closer, clasping Yuuri’s hands with both of his, like that was something people could just do.   
“Your name?” Victor asked, very quietly, stroking one thumb along the back of Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri was staring witlessly. “Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri,” Victor said, thoughtfully, as if his name were the answer to some very important question. But then he tightened his grip on Yuuri’s hand and jumped back into cheerful conversation mode. “I watched your dance, you know. After the fact. I can see why Minako still refers to you as her star pupil. Your form is exquisite. But if you’re here, you didn’t really give up dance, did you?”

Did he ever… stop? Yuuri freed his hand and cleared his throat, jumping a little when Victor did, in fact, stop speaking, and leaned closer as if expecting Yuuri to say something profoundly interesting. “I just—I didn’t want to do it professionally. I still love to dance.”

Soft again. “Of course you do. No one could dance like that and not love it.” 

Yuuri looked up and, horribly, met and locked with Victor’s gaze. His eyes were beautiful, blue, and piercing: seeming to stare right into Yuuri’s soul. Then they were kind again, suddenly, soft and sweet, as Victor straightened up with a laugh. “Practice, then? Can I stay and watch?”

“No,” Yuuri said immediately, before his mind even caught up to his ears.

“No?” Victor repeated, first looking shocked, and then wounded. “Really no?”

“Really no,” Yuuri said, firmly, drawing himself up tall, ignoring the twisting of his stomach. He would focus on his goal, on getting into the studio: it was going to be fine. “Excuse me.”

“But why?” Victor asked, sounding distressed, as Yuuri started to inch around him, keeping his eyes locked firmly with Victor’s. “I could help you stretch, or share ideas, or—“

Yuuri had managed to get Victor to half-turn, and continued his slow exchange of their positions. “No thank you.”

“Are you practicing a new routine?” Victor suddenly brightened, and he even clapped his hands together as Yuuri finally, finally stood in front of the open studio door, though he was still facing away. Facing a ridiculous, relentless, beautiful man who would obviously never, ever stop. “I could help!”

“I’m not interested in teaching a class,” Yuuri blurted out, and stepped backwards into the studio. 

Victor’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Okay.”

“So… bye.” Yuuri caught the edge of the door and swung it shut, leaving him in the half-shadowed studio, alone.

After a moment, a cheerfully irrepressible “See you later, Yuuri!” sounded from beyond the door, and Yuuri reached out, slow and careful, to turn the lock.

— — — 

Phichit had to work on Sunday—real, paying work, at River’s Edge Roasters, a small, local cafe next to Babicheva’s Bakery. River’s Edge made a tidy profit buying up and selling Babicheva’s day-old pastries, and the baristas got to take any that hadn’t sold home at the end of the day. Phichit often joked that Yuuri would never survive without him, but Yuuri always took him seriously.

He’d finished up the desultory Sunday dusting and half the reorder, listed in a yet unfinished email to Mari, before Minami showed up, all apologies. “Yuuri! I’m so sorry! I just wanted everyone to know how great you are!”

It was twenty past noon, and still entirely too early for a tiny nineteen year-old to be crying over Yuuri’s freshly dusted counter. “Minami, it’s all right,” Yuuri sighed, patting the kid’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I got a lot of custom out of it, so, honestly, I should probably be saying thank you.”

“Really?” Minami folded his hands under his chin, beaming up at Yuuri hopefully. He even fluttered his eyelashes, and Yuuri had to strangle a laugh in his throat.

“Really. You’re forgiven, and also thank you.”

Minami heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Oh I’m so glad; I know I get too excited, and too loud, and I don’t think everything through—“

Distraction. Redirection. Yuuri had had some practice with this, with his friend Yuuko’s daughters. “Want to dance?” he tried. The shop was empty but for the two of them, and Yuuri thought maybe some of this, some of Minami’s recent stunts, were probably because he did miss the personal attention that came from having an older student help out in Minako’s classes. 

That was how Sara caught them, ten minutes later, trying to copy K-pop routines from Youtube with limited success, but a great deal of laughter. “Hey now, hey!” she called out, waving a cup of coffee and a bag from Babicheva’s, “Special delivery for Yuuri Katsuki!”

“You don’t work today,” Yuuri accused, squinting at her. He’d left his glasses on the counter, but she definitely wasn’t in uniform. 

“Friends are always on duty,” she said loftily, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Hey, Ken! Did Phichit text you, too?”

“No?” Minami said, confusion evident in his voice.

“Phichit texted you?” Yuuri said at the same time.

“Pretty sure Phichit’s been texting everyone,” Sara said, handing the coffee and bag over to Yuuri. “Said the shop’s been taking a beating, and we should all check on you today since he can’t help out. Mila sends croissants with her love, since she’s working all day, too.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling. “No, it’s quieter today. Only you and Minami so far.”

“Keeping yourselves busy, though,” she commented, and slid between the two of them to grab Minami’s hands. “Okay, let Yuuri take a coffee break. Dance with me!”

Yuuri restarted the song and Sara pulled Minami into a sort of swing dance, almost East Coast, both of them laughing and trying to take the lead. Yuuri, investigating the contents of the bag, discovered that Mila had sent along more than croissants and love; she’d managed to smuggle a few danishes in there as well. 

Mila’s parents owned and operated Babicheva’s Bakery, and Mila had been working there since she was a child. Yuuri, pressed into service as soon as he could walk at his parents’ inn back home, understood her position completely and the two had been fast friends. Mila liked to send him baked goods and Yuuri would give her charms and treats that Mari sent along from Japan. He was pretty sure that Mila and Mari were actually closer than he and Mila were; he knew they messaged daily.

“You guys are going to have to help me with this,” he said, ripping the bag delicately to turn it into a sort of tray, so he could lay out the pastries. Sara grabbed a danish immediately, but Minami took a little coaxing.

Thank u for coffee and company, he texted to Phichit next. “I like how Phichit’s solution to ‘too many people being in Yuuri’s shop is making him anxious’ is ‘send more people to Yuuri’s shop’.”

Sara choked on her pastry. “Oh, sassy Yuuri is back! My favorite Yuuri.”

“Don’t tell him I said that,” Yuuri said immediately.

"Give me ten dollars and I won't."

"That's too much. Here, take Minami; he has to be worth at least seven."

Minami frowned thoughtfully and made a considering gesture. "Six, definitely. Maybe not seven."

"Six fifty, you think?"

"Okay, new deal," Sara said, wiping her hands together briskly over the wastebasket. "Introduce me to your new puppy first thing, and I won't breathe a word to Phichit."

"Oh!" Minami's eyes went big and round. "New puppy?"

Yuuri couldn't even begin to hide his smile. 

— — —


	4. Chapter 4

— — — 

Coffee. Yuuri could smell it.

“Yuuri, good morning,” Phichit sang out from somewhere beyond the blankets that were currently hiding all traces of the alleged morning. “Time to wake up!”

Coffee and something else, something… buttery. Yuuri was trying to figure out whether or not he wanted to risk pulling the blanket down from over his face to better investigate when said blanket was rudely ripped away from him.

“Wake up, I said!”

“Phichit!” Yuuri wailed, hiding his face in his pillow and curling up tight.

“It’s Vicchan’s homecoming day!” Phichit yelled, grabbing the pillow. “Yuuri, get up! I brought you croissants and coffee, I already have the car, it is ALREADY ten AM! Get up!”

Most Mondays, Yuuri would fight until he’d managed to stay in bed for at least another hour, if not two, but Vicchan! 

“That’s what we like to see,” Phichit said, satisfaction clear in his voice, as Yuuri groaned and sat up, kneeling on his bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with both hands. “Well, a little under-dressed for what we like to see, but you can fix that. Breakfast awaits in the kitchen.”

“Wait,” Yuuri said weakly, and held out his hand imploringly as Phichit whisked the coffee and croissants away. He groaned again and looked down; he’d crawled into bed wearing nothing more than underwear: a not uncommon consequence of staying up way too late, playing video games.

Ten minutes later he stumbled into the kitchen, almost walking into the coffee cup Phichit was holding out. “Thank you,” he managed to mumble.

“You’re going to have to learn to deal with mornings, now that you’re a daddy,” Phichit told him. 

“No child of mine will keep your hours.”

“My hours?” Phichit grabbed Yuuri’s arm and pulled him towards the door. “Come on, come on; Vicchan’s waiting!”

They tripped down the stairs together, piled into the horrible red Mini Cooper that Christophe had, for some unfathomable reason, cherished for close to six years at this point. It had, for all of those six years, smelled like someone left a burning cake in it somewhere, and every time Yuuri or Phichit borrowed it, Yuuri tried to remember that he was grateful, not being punished.

Yuuri had packed a little bag the other day, with treats, bags, a leash and harness, and the stuffed mallard toy Guang Hong had picked out for Vicchan. 

“I can’t believe Leo got all those squeaky toys,” Phichit grumbled. He stuck out his hand and nearly poked Yuuri in the nose. “You can sleep through that. You can sleep through anything! I’ll have to teach Vicchan how to wake you up.”

Yuuri shoved the entire croissant in his mouth. Tomorrow, he would start eating better again. 

“We’re going to have to stop for lunch, okay? And do you want to go to the park? We can take Vicchan to the park.”

“Why are you—“

Phichit waved at him. “Don’t talk while you’re chewing. I can’t understand you.”

Swallowing hard, Yuuri tried again. “Don’t we have to take the car back?”

“After we empty the tank.” Phichit laughed as Yuuri sat up straight, immediate protest on his lips. “Yuuri! That’s what Christophe gets for bothering you.”

“We are filling the tank before we return the car,” Yuuri said, glaring at him.

“We fill it with air fresheners.”

The argument made the trip to the shelter seem a lot shorter, which was probably Phichit’s intention—that, and he probably did mean to return the car with no gas. Yuuri had realized pretty early on in their friendship that Phichit liked a little revenge, and without someone to counteract that, he would probably wage an actual war if someone took the last bag of chips at the corner market.

But as they arrived, Yuuri was rubbing his hands on his thighs and trying to get his skin to stop crawling. Anticipation was quickly turning into anxiety, and it took Yuuri until they got out of the car to ask, words tumbling over each other, “What do we need to—do I have to, do I have to sign something? You said you put down a deposit—“

“Yuuri, I adore you, shut up,” Phichit said, coming around the side of the car to grab Yuuri’s arm. “Yes, you’ll have to sign the adoption papers; yes, we’ll have to put down the rest of the adoption fees; yes, I brought the money.”

“Right." Yuuri tried to regulate his breathing. Phichit pulled him forward, propelling them to the shelter’s tiny office. The very practical and stoic woman at the desk ignored him completely, taking the tears already building up in his eyes at a glance, and dealt exclusively with Phichit—although she did hand him a small packet of tissues.

“You said no allergies,” she said then. Maybe accused was more accurate.

“I’m not allergic,” Yuuri said, and sniffed loudly.

“He’s sensitive,” Phichit said, leaning close to the woman and clasping his hands together. “He’s so excited to be a daddy he’s going to cry.”

“And kill you,” Yuuri said before his face heated up to the point of pain. Better just to sit down and let Phichit handle everything.

Eleven agonizing minutes later, another woman opened the inner door and led a small, brown miniature poodle out, and Yuuri really did cry.

— — — 

Vicchan spent the entire ride to the park on Yuuri's lap, wiggling and whining, licking up as many tears as Yuuri managed to cry. “You are so lovely, you are so wonderful, you are the best dog, you are the best ever—“

“Oh my god, Yuuri, shut up until I can record this,” Phichit demanded, giggling in spite of himself.

They’d taken more than a few minutes to fit Vicchan into his new harness, as Vicchan had been entirely too excited to sit still. Shilpa, the woman who had brought Vicchan out to them, promised that he was actually trained, but Yuuri didn’t care if he was an inveterate shoe eater and attacked clowns on sight. He was perfect. “You are perfect,” he whispered to Vicchan, who licked his chin and tried to pull his glasses off.

Phichit filmed Vicchan’s first visit to the park, which was mostly a few open grassy places connected by trails along the lakefront. Students tended to occupy most of the space, blasting music in competition and shouting loud enough to have Vicchan nearly in a frenzy of excitement, but on the trails themselves he calmed down and trotted along happily, frequently looking up at Yuuri with the brightest little eyes any dog had ever had.

“You’re crying again,” Phichit said, and Yuuri sighed loudly as the phone moved close to his face. “Tell everyone how much you love your son.”

“The world was made for Vicchan, and he was nice enough to let the rest of us live in it, too,” Yuuri told the phone with as much sincerity as he could muster.

They had a little trouble when Vicchan tried to go swimming and nearly pulled Yuuri into the lake, but Yuuri recovered just quickly enough from the dog’s sudden dash to save the day.

“Wet dog in the car!” Phichit gasped. “Yuuri, we can put gas in the car if you let Vicchan swim.”

Yuuri's eyes went wide. “We have to return Christophe’s car!”

“Yes, with new and improved Wet Dog Smell!”

Vicchan, darling that he was, climbed gamely back into the car and this time stuck his head out the window, barking cheerfully at pedestrians as Phichit grudgingly drove them back to Christophe’s house, a small blue two-story with an enormous maple in the front whose roots were warping the sidewalk. 

Christophe worked at the bank down the street, another two blocks from their own apartment, and made them bring Vicchan inside to meet everyone. “What a darling,” he cooed, and earned Yuuri’s forgiveness instantly for all the dance class talk. Vicchan wiggled and whined at him, running back to Yuuri and jumping up on him, then running back and accepting more petting. 

“Your keys, I guess,” Phichit said and sighed heavily, glaring petulantly at Yuuri as he handed them over. 

“You don’t need to go shopping, or anything?” Christophe asked, looking up from Vicchan with a smile. “You can keep them longer if you need to. I thought you might keep the car all day.”

“Yuuri won’t let me,” Phichit told him.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Christophe said, standing up and brushing his hands together. “That reminds me. Victor read me the riot act yesterday, so, I apologize for pressuring you about the dance class thing.” He tucked his head down and blinked up at Yuuri through his eyelashes. “Forgive me?”

“He—what?” Yuuri looked at Phichit, whose eyebrows were all the way up.

Christophe shrugged. “He’s taking your rejection very personally. Said you slammed a door in his face.”

Phichit was tracking the blush growing on Yuuri’s face with wide-eyed suspicion. “You did what? Yuuri!”

“I didn’t— I didn’t slam it!” 

“You—“

“That lovely but irritated woman yonder is my boss,” Christophe interrupted, waving cheerfully at the woman glaring at him exasperatedly from near the tellers, “so I think we’ll have to continue the argument later. Thank you for introducing me to Vicchan, Yuuri. I can’t wait to see him again. At the shop, I hope?”

Yuuri shook his head even as he said, “Yes, of course.”

— — — 

“Why don’t you tell me these things? Why do I have to learn things from Christophe, of all people?” Phichit wailed, after they’d gone home and ordered katsudon for lunch. Yuuri was watching Vicchan investigate his bedroom, scrambling up onto his bed with—

“No, not that, Vicchan,” he said, taking the ornamental braid away from him and replacing it with a squeaky ninja star. “I should’ve cleaned, I’m sorry.”

“Pretty sure Victor’s going to think you hate him if you keep this up,” Phichit said from the door, and Yuuri groaned. “That’s fine, if you don’t want in his pants.”

“Can we just love on Vicchan for the rest of the day, and not—“

“Not talk about his namesake? Hardly.”

Luckily, Vicchan figured out how to make the ninja star squeak just then, and the conversation was effectively derailed by how excited he got, jumping around Yuuri’s bed and knocking the squeaky star down, only to chase it.

Thirty minutes and eight Instagram videos later, the doorbell rang and Phichit ran off to grab their food while Yuuri added another toy to the pile surrounding and half-covering an exhilarated Vicchan. 

“Otabek’s coming in to meet Vicchan!” Phichit sang out, leading their favorite delivery person up the stairs.

Otabek was in his second year at university, studying history and music, and working part-time at Japanland to afford his motorcycle habit. Last Yuuri had heard, he’d fixed up and sold his bike in order to get a different beat-up model and fix that up. He also DJ-ed at a club downtown that Yuuri, with increasing rarity after discovering Otabek DJ-ed there, liked to get extremely drunk at. All of this information had been wheedled out with an incredible dedication and determination by Phichit, who was convinced that a man who delivered katsudon on a motorcycle could not be as boring as Otabek presented himself to be.

“Yuuri’s son,” Phichit said, and whistled. “Here, Vicchan!”

In a move that nearly broke Yuuri’s heart, Vicchan looked to Yuuri first before padding over to sniff Otabek’s boot, wagging his tail politely.

“Cute,” Otabek said in his possibly trademarked monotone. “Is he going to be a shop dog?”

Yuuri chewed on his lip. “I hope so? I mean, we’ll see how he does tomorrow, I guess…”

Vicchan let out a short, sharp bark, and stood on his hind legs, dancing a bit in front of Otabek. Phichit snorted and went for his phone while Yuuri’s entire world shrank to his dog, dancing in annoyance as he met the first human who wasn’t completely enthralled with him and offering him pets and treats.

For the first time ever, Yuuri witnessed Otabek smile. “Well, if the shop doesn’t work out, you should take him to the studio. He’s a natural.”

“Minako, we’ve found your new star pupil,” Phichit said, bringing the phone in close.

— — —


	5. Chapter 5

— — — 

Vicchan was not that great a shop dog.

“Come—HERE!” Yuuri grunted, pulling Vicchan up into his arms and away from the bundles of clearance paper he’d been trying to chew on. Vicchan yipped and wriggled, licking Yuuri’s face in excitement over their new game. 

They'd taken two walks that morning. Two walks! One at five in the morning, because Vicchan wouldn’t stop climbing on Yuuri until he got up! And he was still— “Vicchan!” Yuuri cried out, as the shop door opened and the dog jumped right out of his arms.

“Express,” Seung-Gil intoned, expressionlessly swooping Vicchan up under his free arm—the other was holding a large package from Japan. “Also your dog.”

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri gasped, trying to take both from his mailman at the same time. Seung-Gil rolled his eyes and pushed the parcel with some force into Yuuri’s arms, adjusting his hold on Vicchan so that the dog was laying in Seung-Gil’s arms like a baby and rubbing his tummy. Vicchan lay back easily enough, even though his little puppy eyes were still showing white with excitement. 

“Obviously you are a terror and I should be macing you,” Seung-Gil said, and Yuuri looked between him and Vicchan’s adoring puppy grin twice before deciding it was probably a joke.

The package was from Mari, of course, and Yuuri signed for it dutifully after he’d managed to grab Seung-Gil’s scanner from his satchel—Seung-Gil was still reprimanding his poor dog for his behavior, and comparing him unfavorably to his own two, admittedly adorable and very well-behaved, Huskies. And he was still cradling and petting Vicchan in spite of it.

“How old is he?” Seung-Gil asked, finally acknowledging Yuuri again when the scanner beeped its completed delivery. He and Yuuri traded, scanner for dog, even though Seung-Gil did so reluctantly.

“Two years old,” Yuuri sighed, trying again to keep Vicchan from leaping to the floor. “He’s supposed to be trained.”

“As an office dog?” Seung-Gil’s route covered a swath of the downtown area just outside of the university, which mostly took care of its own mail, and he knew every single dog in the area. Phichit liked to test him, describing dogs he had seen at various offices and shops around town and seeing if Seung-Gil could identify them.

“As an elderly lady’s lap dog.”

Seung-Gil rolled his eyes and tucked his scanner away, reaching out to chuck Vicchan under the chin. “Give him a few days to learn his new routine, then—and send him upstairs to sleep after an hour or two.”

Vicchan whined when he left, but settled back into Yuuri’s arms willingly enough once the door closed. “Oh, now that he’s gone, I’m good enough for you?” Yuuri mumbled, but cuddled him close anyway. 

— — — 

Seung-Gil had probably assumed Vicchan had a kennel.

“No no no no no!” Yuuri wailed, frightening Vicchan into running straight under Phichit’s bed, dragging Phichit's weird, monkey-shaped heating pad with him. The weird, monkey-shaped heating pad that Vicchan had all but destroyed in the twenty minutes he’d been left alone in the apartment.

And so it went, throughout a still uncommonly busy Tuesday: Vicchan, down in the shop, would bark and paw at customers and try to escape into the street. Up in the apartment, he would chew on anything that wasn’t a toy, up to and including the window sill, and bark himself silly rather than sleep. 

Even worse, because Yuuri had become too focused on keeping him inside and quiet and thus missed his signals, Vicchan had urinated behind the counter. 

Phichit was back around five and had taken over minding the shop so Yuuri could get Vicchan out of an entirely too exciting situation. “Try a walk,” he said, literally pushing Yuuri out the door. “You need it, too.”

Yuuri might’ve needed it, but Vicchan needed the exact opposite, and was, even now, sleeping on Yuuri’s lap at the side of the lake, completely and utterly exhausted.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, shifting just enough to be comfortable; Vicchan didn’t react. “It was like this for my first day at the shop, too. Well. Not the peeing.”

It was getting colder, and a faint dark line at the horizon promised rain. Hidden at the shoreline, a good two yards from the path, with a steady if not terribly strong breeze pushing at his face, Yuuri could barely hear the people up in the park proper calling back and forth to each other. The last knot of tension in his shoulders was starting to give way, even as Vicchan farted in his sleep, and Yuuri burst into helpless laughter.

“Oh, my god, what else did you eat when I wasn’t watching?” he demanded, and giggled when Vicchan’s ear twitched.

Another minute of just sitting, and listening to his heartbeat. Then Yuuri took out his phone and texted a picture of Vicchan to Minako, who called back in less than thirty seconds.

“I was wondering when you’d get in touch with me,” she said, not giving Yuuri a chance to say more than hello. “I figured that idiot would get involved you in this, too. My ankle is going to be fine, Yuuri. Don’t worry about it.”

“Going to be fine isn’t fine right now,” Yuuri countered, tracing around Vicchan’s still twitching ear. “You can’t demonstrate, can you?”

“That’s what we hired that gorgeous hunk of Russian for. Mm. How can I be so lucky, to be paid to have him pose for me?”

“Minako-sensei,” Yuuri said reprovingly, blushing without reason.

“And now Christophe’s back, another lovely specimen—“

“Please, stop.”

Minako laughed at him, but she did stop. “Yuuri, I’m fine, I promise you. I’m back in PT.”

“That’s why you need people to take on your classes,” Yuuri realized, and then winced as he realized, also, that he had said it aloud.

“I don’t need anyone to take on my classes! I just told you—“

“Can I—“

They interrupted each other, and both fell silent at once. Yuuri shivered as the breeze sharpened; it was getting closer to six, and much darker. 

“Minako-sensei, if—if I—could I maybe—“

“Spit it out, Yuuri,” she told him, sighing loudly into the phone. “When have I ever told you no?”

“Two years ago, about the Guns and Roses song.”

“That was as much for you as for me.”

Yuuri smiled reflexively and drew in his breath. “Can I help coach some of your older students? Until your ankle is better.”

— — — 

Phichit was not amused. “I thought the whole idea was to keep your Mondays free, and to keep you from having to teach!”

Yuuri was trying to stitch up Ling, the weird monkey heating pad, while Vicchan slept on his foot. “I’m not teaching. I’m coaching up to three students, one on one, one hour a piece.” He smiled up at Phichit. “That I can do.”

“Because you can’t let Christophe be more helpful than you.” Phichit pointed his stirring spoon at Yuuri, after licking the curry he was heating up from it. At this point in their friendship, Yuuri was long accustomed to the idea that any food in their apartment was ninety percent likely to have come into contact with Phichit’s saliva. “You have issues.”

“She was my teacher first, and she has to love me best. Forever.”

“But that’s more work than just one class in a week—“

“I’m not teaching, though. I’m just coaching,” Yuuri tried to explain, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “It’s—they know what they want to do, I’m just helping them… Smooth it out.”

Phichit snorted. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Is Minami one of your students?”

Yuuri heaved a sigh. “Yes.”

Minami was his Thursday evening student. The other two, Wryn and Bandile, would be his Monday afternoon students. He knew Wryn fairly well; she was focused on ballet and would likely stop coaching sessions with him once Victor (who Yuuri was not thinking about, not at all) was more comfortable with his schedule and could make time to coach her. Bandile wasn’t looking to graduate this year; he would be auditioning for the Alvin Ailey School of Dance at the end of the semester and hopefully be transferring to his number one school pick, just a year later than he had planned.

“This has got to be the start of his favorite forbidden fantasy,” Phichit sighed, going back to his cooking. “Be careful, okay? He’s definitely going to try to seduce you.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri almost dropped Ling, and did kick poor Vicchan awake, compounding his horror. “Oh, no, baby, I’m sorry,” he crooned, reaching down to pet his disoriented dog. “Your uncle Phichit’s being horrible. No one is trying to seduce me.”

“Except your spiritual daddy Vicki Nikifiki.”

“I hope you’re calling him Vicchan’s spiritual daddy,” Yuuri sputtered, his face heating up fast. He tried to hide it, but Phichit was already cackling.

“Vicchan’s daddy, but Yuuri’s daddy, if you know what I mean!”

“Well that’s good, then, right? If I’m being seduced by Victor then Minami will just have to seduce someone else.”

“It’s gonna be a free for all. I’m calling it. Everyone tries to seduce Yuuri. I’m making a Facebook event.”

“Can you maybe focus on making dinner?”

Later on, while Yuuri was washing dishes, Phichit called Christophe, intending to borrow his car so that they could get Vicchan a kennel and try to get advice from a homeowner on how to fix up the window sill without letting maintenance know what had happened. This somehow turned into a late night Home Depot run that Yuuri begged out of, because did they really dare leave Vicchan alone, after what had happened to Ling? Even if it was dangerous to let Phichit and Christophe go off anywhere without supervision.

Half an hour later, staring at his invite to the “Yuuri Katsuki Seduction Pool” Private Facebook Group, Yuuri silently swore to never allow them to be without supervision again.

— — — 

Wednesday begins much the same way as Tuesday: Vicchan, up at five AM, demanding a walk. Yuuri, staggering through the silent morning with a travel mug of coffee that doesn’t begin to help. Back to bed for another two hours, before it was time to get up to open the shop.

“Told you,” Phichit said serenely, balancing on one leg in some kind of yoga pose just to make Yuuri angry. Yuuri knew this because Phichit has confessed. “And now you’ll have to choose between walking him again and unpacking Mari’s box.”

He couldn’t even talk yet, and Phichit was sassing him. Yuuri waved his middle finger in Phichit’s general direction and tried to devour a frozen waffle in one bite.

“Come to the light side, Yuuri. Wake up early. Morning sunshine is the healthiest sunshine.”

“It’s raining,” Yuuri croaked, and belatedly poured syrup into his mouth. For the waffle.

“You’re so disgusting,” Phichit said fondly and took a picture. Yuuri would flag it as obscene later and get whatever account Phichit posted it to suspended.

Another cup of coffee, another quick walk, and Yuuri caught sight of himself in the reflection of the shop door’s window on the way back in and resolved to bury himself in a hoodie. Maybe he would be up to brushing his hair around, say, noon.

“So, do you regret getting a dog yet?” Sara asked him later, after chasing Vicchan down the street when he snuck past her dolly of boxes and bringing him back. 

Yuuri had already failed at scolding Vicchan, who had simply tilted his head charmingly and panted. “No. I love my ridiculous runaway son.”

“He sure is cute,” Sara sighed. “Keep him on a leash, okay?”

He tried that. Vicchan knocked over the stool behind the counter in his next escape attempt, and then knocked himself silly on the side of the counter when Yuuri took to just holding the leash. He howled when Yuuri put him in the kennel, and then peed in it.

Yuuri was on the phone with Phichit, cuddling a frantically squirming Vicchan to his chest and begging him to skip his last class, when a customer slammed his hand down on the counter and made Vicchan bark, Yuuri jump, and the phone clatter down to the floor.

“Can you not control your own damn mutt?” a kid demanded, and Yuuri bit back what would have been an instinctive apology. “Are you trying to drive everyone out of here? Because it’s your store; you could just, I don’t fucking know, close it?”

“He’ll get better,” Yuuri said, hugging Vicchan closer, which made Vicchan struggle harder. “He’s just. He’s new to this.”

“He needs a walk or something,” the kid grumbled, and pushed back the hood on his jacket. “I can walk him. For you.”

Yuuri blinked and then narrowed his gaze at the kid. The teen, he corrected himself—probably fourteen, fifteen, and in more need of a haircut than Yuuri himself was. He was a gangly little thing with what seemed to be a permanent scowl etched into what was otherwise a perfectly nice face.

“What’s your name?” he asked, finally. Vicchan was relaxing into his hold now, so Yuuri made sure his leash was still attached and set him down on the floor to curl up next to the stool.

The teen’s scowl deepened. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to walk my dog,” Yuuri said. “And, um, why—why do you want to walk my dog?”

Another long, angry, assessing stare, and then the teen slammed something else down on the counter: one of the Pilot pens Mari had sent along from Japan, black, decorated with a stylistic tiger. “I want this pen.”

“It’s thirty-seven dollars,” Yuuri said automatically, and winced as the teen bared his teeth at him.

“I know that! And it’s fucking stupid! It’s just a pen!”

Yuuri waited patiently, staring the teen down until he dropped his piercing green eyes. “You want to walk my dog in exchange for the pen.”

“Like how many walks would it take?” 

Yuuri waited again, until the teen looked up. “Your name? Mine’s Yuuri.”

This earned him an eye-roll. “Yeah, I know. Me too.”

“You too? Oh!” Yuuri covered his mouth, trying to hide a smile. “You’re a Yuuri, too!”

“Russian, though. Yuri Plisetsky.” The teen—Yuri, held out his hand gracelessly. “Pleased to meet you, I guess. So can I walk your dog?”

At that moment, someone opened the door to the shop, and Vicchan tried to make a run for it. Yuuri braced himself and just kept his hold on the leash, causing Vicchan to again slam into the side of the counter.

— — —


	6. Chapter 6

— — — 

Yuri Plisetsky was sixteen, finishing up his junior year of high school online, and, according to Phichit, Yuuri’s newest adopted son.

“Seriously, he’s here every day, and—“

“He really wants that tiger pen,” Yuuri interrupted, “and he will probably kick you in the shins if he hears you calling him my son.”

Phichit heaved another box of papers onto the counter for Yuuri to slice open. “Then I’ll sue you.”

“Then I’ll divorce you.”

“I’m taking Christophe and Vicchan. You get tiny Yuri and the shop.”

Vicchan was, currently, out on a walk with tiny Yuri, on their second day together under the Tiger Pen Contract. They’d agreed that Yuri would walk Vicchan twice a day, Wednesday through Friday, and then once on Saturday to earn the pen. Yuuri had a sneaking suspicion that this would also serve to give tiny Yuri something to do in the day, as he had just moved here and had no easy way of making friends.

Yuuri pulled out some heavy cream paper with delicate silver embellishments along the side. “Weddings,” he directed, handing it to Phichit. “And if you take Christophe, I’m keeping Otabek.”

“I’m keeping Victor Niktor!”

At that, Yuuri burst into laughter, pulling out a pack of delicate lavender paper. “You’ll lose in your own seduction pool!”

“What are you idiots talking about?” tiny Yuri demanded, pushing his way back into the store. Vicchan barked and made a beeline for Yuuri, stopping short to dance on his hind legs. Yuuri, utterly charmed and, for once, not completely overwhelmed, dropped to his knees to draw Vicchan into his arms.

“Are you going to study here again today?” Phichit asked. “Because I’ll go for pastries if you help stock paper.”

“Yuri’s not stocking paper,” Yuuri shot back. “He’s not an employee.”

“I’m not an employee! I’m basically a hostage!”

Tiny Yuri (who was honestly not that tiny, and they were going to have to find a better nickname for him, Yuuri knew) scowled at him. “I thought we were your hostages, honestly.” He sank into a heap on the floor, just next to the counter, and pulled out the laptop he’d stored there before leaving. “I have schoolwork.”

“Go for the pastries,” Yuuri said, and tried to get out his wallet. 

Phichit waved it away, darting for the door. “Mila’s got extras today! She already texted. And you’ll need the energy for coaching tonight!”

“Oh for—get me something healthy!” Yuuri called after him, clutching at his hair. He was coaching; he had to get his diet back under control. He looked down at his rounded belly and sighed. 

“Coaching?” tiny Yuri repeated, looking up from under his hood.

“Dance.” 

Tiny Yuri snorted and went back to his homework. “Yeah, I saw that ribbon thing of yours.”

“You did?” He wondered why tiny Yuri was wandering around a university campus by himself, but that just led back around to thinking that he was probably terribly lonely. Yuuri scratched lightly at Vicchan’s ears and laughed when the dog tried to lick his entire face. “All right, darling. Bedtime for you. I’m putting the sign up, Yuri.”

“Whatever.”

Phichit had crafted it last night, a simple cardboard sign for the counter—replacing the old “Be Right Back!” sign—that read “Don’t Ask.” So far it had already claimed three bewildered students who asked tiny Yuri what it meant, and allowed him to chew them out—something he enjoyed even more than writing with his new tiger pen. Yuuri put it up every time he ran upstairs to put Vicchan in his kennel, which had already become significantly less awful for Vicchan since it now happened with a treat and after a walk.

Not that he didn’t still howl while Yuuri was leaving, but at least he stopped by the time Yuuri returned to the shop. 

Estrella, one of his sweet older customers, was browsing the newest card stock, and tiny Yuri had his enormous sound canceling headphones in. Everything was under control, even if he’d only managed to unpack one box of his latest order.

A moment of peace. 

Of course it would be that selfsame moment that Victor Nikiforov would, once again, saunter through his shop door.

— — — 

For a minute, Yuuri was grateful that Phichit had left—but he hadn’t expected that someone else being in the shop at the same time as Victor would be such a problem.

“You're banned!” Tiny Yuri shouted, still seated by the counter. He was pointing to the door, shaking with fury. “Get out!”

“Banned?” Victor repeated. He looked mildly, almost pleasantly surprised, lit by the weak afternoon sunlight in such a soft relief that Yuuri’s knees were weak. “Do you work here?”

“Yes!”

“No,” Yuuri said at the same time, shaking himself out of his open-mouthed stare and stepping into the fray. “No, he doesn’t work here, and no one is banned.”

“He’s banned,” Yuri hissed at him, arching over his laptop like a cat. “He’s a stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker,” Victor said, now looking mildly put upon. “I’m your cousin.”

“Why are you here, then? I didn’t tell you I was here!”

“Flexer ribbon,” Yuuri said, and flinched when they both turned to stare at him. “I—I mean. That’s what you got. The last time? You wanted more flexer ribbon, right?”

“Right!” Victor said brightly, and winked at Yuuri. “Flexer ribbon.”

Why he winked, Yuuri couldn’t begin to guess, but he could already feel the heat rising in his face. It was easy enough to hide it by hunting for the ribbon.

“But why are you here, Yura?” Victor asked, and Yuuri turned around just in time to see tiny Yuri grab the cardboard sign from the counter. 

“Read it, asshole!”

“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri whispered to Estrella, who merely patted his arm and continued to go through the card stock with her ever-present, gentle smile.

“I see.” Victor turned grandly, beaming when he met Yuuri’s gaze. “So, Yuuri! I was wondering—“

Tiny Yuri was on his feet, the cardboard sign shoved now in front of Yuuri’s face, though the admonition was still facing Victor. “Didn’t I ban you? Get out!”

“We can ban people now?” This was Phichit’s voice, and where there was Phichit’s voice, there was sure to be Phichit’s phone. Yuuri pushed the sign down just in time to see the bright green recording light flash on.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting us pastries?” Yuuri demanded, taking the sign out of tiny Yuri’s hand. 

“I forgot my wallet,” Phichit said serenely, which meant he had noticed Victor making his way to the shop and come back in order to memorialize the chaos. Yuuri tried to communicate his disdain with his glare alone.

Tiny Yuri was glaring at Phichit, too, and that needed to be headed off. “Let’s just get this ribbon bagged, all right?” Yuuri grabbed Victor’s arm and marched him the four steps over to the counter, trying to avoid Phichit’s phone. Tiny Yuri was, alarmingly, hissing like a cat.

Victor gamely pulled out his wallet, still smiling like he and Yuuri were sharing a joke. “Seven dollars, right? And I can put in for pastries.”

“You’re not staying!” tiny Yuri roared.

“Why not?”

Estrella wasn't even looking at the card stock anymore; she was simply taking in the show. Yuuri’s shop was going to be the talk of the retirement home tonight.

“I wanted to touch base with Yuuri on the studio schedule,” Victor said calmly, holding out a twenty in Phichit’s direction. Phichit immediately stepped up to take it without changing his expression, even though he would definitely not be using it on pastries. “You’re coaching tonight, according to Chris. Will you want to warm up? What time do you need me to make sure the studio’s clear?”

“Oh,” Yuuri said blankly. “Um.” He actually hadn't thought that far. Heat rose in his face and he kept his gaze down on the ribbon.

“What time are you meeting with Ken?” Victor asked kindly, handing Yuuri a second twenty. 

“Seven?” Yuuri cringed at himself for sounding so hesitant, and nodded his head firmly. “Sorry, yeah, seven.”

“So you’ll want the studio from six? Five-thirty?”

Yuuri swallowed hard. Somehow, Victor was easier to deal with when he wasn’t being business-like. “Yeah. Six—six sounds great.”

Victor hummed to himself. “And what about—it was Mondays, right? You’re coaching then, too?”

He had a datebook out. He was actually writing it down in a datebook. Yuuri scribbled important information down on post-its and pilfered origami paper and lost them like a normal person. 

“Mondays, right. Three and four-thirty, so I’ll need the studio from two, two-thirty at latest, if that’s—if that’s all right?”

“We can manage that,” Victor said, sounding pleased. Yuuri risked a look at a face and felt the blush come back with a vengeance; Victor was beaming at him once again. “But you’re okay with this, right? You said you didn’t want to teach a class.”

And shut a door in Victor’s face; Yuuri remembered it very well. “Coaching and teaching are different,” he managed to say, and then realized he was still holding the twenty dollar bill in one hand and the ribbon in the other. He scrambled to get Victor’s change, very aware of the scrutiny of everyone in the shop.

“I should probably get those pastries,” Phichit announced suddenly, and started to back out the door. “Victor, you’re sticking around, right? You can help Yuuri stock paper.”

Yuuri’s head shot up. “Stop trying to make other people do your chore!”

“He is not staying!” tiny Yuri howled at the same time. Up above, Vicchan heard and joined in. Yuuri sat down heavily and tried to regulate his breathing.

“Dear, this has been fun,” Estrella said then, “but the bus is going to be back soon and I’d like to finish my shopping.”

\- - -

Victor stayed. Tiny Yuri moved to the back of the tiny shop and hid by the ribbon wall to do his schoolwork. Yuuri, with no good choices, brought Vicchan downstairs and immediately lost him to Victor’s grabby arms.

“What a sweetheart!” Victor gasped. Vicchan, the little flirt that he was, scrambled right into Victor’s embrace and set about licking his neck and face and trying to chew on his hair. Victor sat down behind the counter on Yuuri’s stool and began murmuring nonsense to the dog, looking completely comfortable and content—and unlikely to leave any time soon.

Yuuri went back to stocking paper, because someone had to.

“Keep a good grip on his leash,” he warned Victor. “He likes to run for the door.”

“Is that so? Is that so, little escape artist?” Victor cooed at Vicchan, who wriggled until he was upturned on Victor’s lap, awaiting belly rubs. Victor complied with gusto. “I have a dog, too, Yuuri! A standard poodle. Makkachin.”

He took out his phone, flipped through a few photos and then help it up. “See? Isn’t she beautiful?”

Yuuri pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned in to take a look, smiling helplessly at the sight of the poodle looking up all innocently, a pair of ballet shoes, half-chewed, resting on her paws. “She is,” he admitted, and smiled further at the way Victor preened when he said it.

“Do you think they’d be good friends? Does Vicchan like other dogs?” Victor asked, and Yuuri blinked, standing up straight. He didn’t actually know. He doubted, being a lap dog, that Vicchan had had much contact with other dogs. “We could walk them together!”

“I walk the dog, asshole,” tiny Yuri piped up from across the shop. Victor paid him no mind, only staring at Yuuri with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Prob—probably?” Yuuri said, tilting his head. “But we go early. Vicchan’s up around five.”

He immediately cursed his lack of brain to filter as Victor clapped his hands together, startling poor Vicchan. “Perfect! We’ll meet here at the shop! Should I bring coffee? I’ll bring coffee. Makkachin just loves morning walks!”

What had Yuuri done?

— — —


	7. Chapter 7

— — —

Victor stayed just long enough to grab an eclair and irritate tiny Yuri into taking Vicchan back out for a third walk. Poor little guy was going to be exhausted, Yuuri knew, but maybe he would sleep while Yuuri was coaching Minami.

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to have both of them hanging out here,” Phichit warned through a small cheesecake. At Yuuri’s eye roll he continued, “Seriously, though. I think you were reading him wrong. I think he’s as lonely as tiny Yuri.”

“And they’ve both somehow come to the conclusion that my shop is the most happening spot in town,” Yuuri said. He was still stocking paper. Why was he still stocking the paper? “Why am I doing your chore?”

“Because I hate it,” Phichit said cheerfully. “I think you were just in the right place at the right time, you know?”

“Irashai!” Yuuri called out as two young women cautiously peered in, lingering at the door. “No, I don’t know. I'm only ever here.” He gestured around the shop.

“Where the old ladies hang out, where the delivery people hang out, where the dance majors hang out—“

“Where the lonely Russians hang out,” Yuuri added, with what he hoped was biting sarcasm.

“You’re like a Japanese Statue of Liberty,” Phichit said solemnly.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Yuuri heaved a sigh, stepping back to take in the weddings shelf. “Fine, if you don’t like stocking paper, can you empty out the mailbox? Seung-Gil didn’t say anything last time he was here, but he was distracted by Vicchan, and I haven’t gotten the mail in… probably a month.”

“Ugh.” Phichit got to his feet with exaggerated slowness. “I hate getting the mail. What if there are bees again?”

The mailboxes were near the dumpsters, and consequently very nearly always haunted by pests of some sort. Yuuri had almost been eaten by a raccoon last summer. He held up a ream of delicate, lavender washi paper and said, “It’s too early for bees. But I guess that means you’d rather stock, then?”

Four more students had been in and out by the time Phichit made it back with a shopping bag full of crunched, twisted mail, and Yuuri was seriously considering cutting back to five days a week. Maybe taking a long weekend. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people coming into the shop, it was just… 

"Katsudon and wine tonight?” Phichit asked, peeking through the mail with a little moue of disgust. “Just us. We’ll watch some stupid horror movie.”

“I have to get up early,” Yuuri said, reluctantly, because katsudon and wine sounded really good. Maybe just the katsudon. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be getting a work out tonight.

“I’ll have it waiting. I’ll order it at seven forty-five, so you have an excuse to run immediately after coaching.”

Phichit was good. Phichit was almost too good. Yuuri narrowed his eyes. “Do you really hate stocking the paper that much?”

“Do you really hate Victor being around that much?” Phichit neatly countered. He picked up a squashed catalog and gestured dramatically with it. “I mean, you barely drooled over the man today! Are you over your infatuation so quickly? Should I cancel the invitations for your wedding?”

Of all the— Yuuri grabbed the empty stock box off the counter. “Okay, first of all, we’re going to elope.”

“You utter bastard. Not now you’re not. I’ll have a PI track your every move.”

Yuuri snorted. “I’ll throw off suspicion by seeming to succumb to Minami’s charms—“

Phichit swooned. “Devilish! You heartbreaker!”

“And early tomorrow morning,” Yuuri continued inexorably, “Vicchan and I will vanish with Victor Nikiforov, heading off into the sunrise.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” Phichit said comfortably. “Catch you disappearing with anyone early in the morning. Ha!”

Yuuri only smiled. The anxiety he kept to himself.

— — — 

“Yuuri! You’re late!”

Yuuri hadn't even let go of the door handle and Victor was already at his side, slinging an arm around his shoulder and trying to usher him into the studio. It was six-twenty. Hadn’t they just agreed it was Yuuri’s studio time?

“Isn’t it—I mean, do—don’t I have the studio, now?” Yuuri winced at how squeaky his voice had gotten. Victor smelled like sweat—which, yeah, wasn’t the best smell in the world, but it was a very common and comfortable one to a dancer. It was just. He was warm, too. Also common.

Just. He was touching Yuuri. Yuuri’s entire body was tingling.

So much for being over his infatuation.

“I had class ’til six,” Victor explained, and how was he still fairly vibrating with energy? Yuuri disentangled himself from Victor’s very warm, very muscled arm to put his bag down on the floor near the stereo system and congratulated himself heartily for not tripping over his own suddenly wobbly legs. “I thought I’d help you stretch! And get an idea what you’re doing with Ken, so I can build off that in class.”

Yuuri peered over his shoulder as he pulled his half-soles out of his bag. Victor was shamelessly staring back, and the heat exploded in Yuuri’s cheeks when he realized Victor was staring right at Yuuri’s butt.

Right. Well. Yuuri stood up straight, trying to act like he hadn’t noticed, and then had to try to get his half-soles on standing. He had to think of something to say. Anything to say. “How—how did class go?”

Victor lit up. “Wonderful! Minako let me take the lead again today, and I’m getting the hang of it, I think?” He continued on, chatting happily about his students and techniques and Yuuri let it wash over him, concentrating on regulating his breathing and, hopefully, letting his flushed face calm back down. 

That lasted until Victor came over while Yuuri was stretching and, rather than simply pushing on Yuuri’s back, draped himself over Yuuri to help him reach farther.

“Come on, Yuuri,” he half-whispered, “I know you can do better than that.”

He was so warm. Yuuri sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let it out slow as he reached, and reached, the deep, good ache of a solid stretch keeping him at ease, Victor’s warm weight becoming more welcome as his body relaxed into the position.

“Wow. You are really flexible.”

Yuuri huffed out a laugh in spite of himself. “Comes with the territory.”

Victor may have laughed; Yuuri wasn’t sure how to classify the soft, breathy sound that came from him, but he knew he wouldn’t mind hearing it again. And then Victor was up, only his warmth lingering, and Yuuri released from his stretch.

While he stood to stretch against the wall, Victor started messing around with the stereo system, looking at Minako’s practice CDs and trying—and failing—to hook his own phone into the system. Eventually Yuuri went over and helped him, privately glad he’d learned how to hook it up last year, because he’d looked just as helpless when he’d first tried.

“What music do you like for warming up, Yuuri?” Victor asked, scrolling through his playlists with a delighted grin. 

“It depends,” Yuuri called back over his shoulder, still stretching out his calves.

“On?”

“The day? My mood?” Yuuri made a face, but only to the wall. “The weather, maybe?”

“But what would you like today?” Victor demanded, only a little impatient. It made Yuuri smile, and he turned around to share it, and felt a sweet little thrill at the way Victor’s expression softened, just a bit, at Yuuri’s smile.

And then it blazed, into something wild and shocking and beautiful, when Yuuri said, “Surprise me.”

— — — 

And then it was five AM, and Yuuri was rolling out of bed despite body and mind screaming for him to roll right back in.

Swearing, quietly but with heartfelt sincerity, he scrounged some pants and a hoodie from the floor. Vicchan was already whining at the bedroom door, twisting back and forth and darting forward to lick frantically at Yuuri’s hands. 

He’d danced. Last night. With Victor. And then Minami had shown up, and Victor had faded, as much as someone as beautiful and vivid as Victor could fade, into the background… And he’d left halfway through Minami’s session, and maybe Phichit was right, because Minami had kept trying to get Yuuri to physically correct his, Minami’s, posture…

He wasn’t going to think about this now, because then he’d have to think about coming back home and drinking two glasses of wine with his katsudon, even though he knew he had to get up at five the next morning. And if he had to think about that, about his terrible decision, Yuuri would have to hate himself instead of just mornings themselves.

His head was still pounding. But Vicchan needed his walk.

Comfy jeans, hoodie, glasses—on the floor, for some reason—coffee. Yuuri stumbled into the kitchen, almost knocked a chair over, but made it to the coffee machine. Phichit, bless his tiny techie heart, had programmed the coffee machine. Yuuri had only to find a travel mug and fill it.

Leash, baggies, treats if necessary to cajole the world’s most beautiful, most darling dog, and… Yuuri stumbled over Phichit’s shoes, his own shoes, the ones he didn’t want to wear, where were the slip-on sneakers—there! 

He pulled the hood up over his head and, breaking his own rule for the sake of expediency, something he’d been doing every 5 AM since Vicchan’s arrival in his life, Yuuri headed for the door to the shop.

“Yuuri! Good morning!”

It was Victor, breath pluming in the dim glow of the streetlights, beaming like a sunrise. Yuuri couldn’t make words come out of his throat; he couldn’t even care that he only managed a grunt in reply.

“This is Makkachin, my darling girl. Say hello to Yuuri and Vicchan, sweetheart!”

The two dogs were already trying to circle each other, tails wagging fiercely, and the tiny, hidden, sleep-smothered conscious part of Yuuri’s brain found it adorable. But the rest of him remained hunched, staring fixedly, numbly holding a coffee mug and wishing for death.

Then Victor was holding out a Starbucks cup. “I said I’d bring coffee, remember? I got you a latte.”

A latte. Yuuri looked blearily from the cup to the mug in his hand. Only two hands. A problem. He couldn’t hold two coffee cups and walk a dog, so…

He tucked the travel mug between his legs and took the latte from Victor, pulling the top off and tipping it back. It had cooled enough from getting to Starbucks to the shop that Yuuri could chug it comfortably, taking only a minute to drink it fully, with only one narrow liquid line escaping his lips.

He finished it, wiped his face with his sleeve, and put the top back on. Then he handed it back to Victor and got his travel mug back into his hand.

“Are we going?” he managed to ask, almost in a normal voice—rather than his usual pre-9 AM croak.

Victor had, at some point, let his jaw drop. But now he snapped it up and managed a smile, though it looked suspiciously crooked to Yuuri’s burning eyeballs. “Yes. Yes! Do you have a usual route, or shall we just head for the park?”

Yuuri’s usual route was to Christophe’s house and back, so that Vicchan could poop on his lawn and Yuuri could stop by later and pick it up. Phichit had suggested it. 

“Park,” he said, and this was in the croak, because fuck it. Just… fuck it. Vicchan was tugging on his leash, ready to go, and Makkachin was starting to dance a bit, too.

“All right,” Victor said, uncertainly, and then rallied. “All right! Makka, to the park!”

Yuuri tried to hide a jaw-cracking yawn in his elbow as Vicchan scrambled to catch up to his new, longer-limbed friend.

He hated mornings.

— — —


End file.
